


High Dive

by fairietailed



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/M, Fluff, POV Second Person, fluffy fluff, maka just really loves soul and space and dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 11:39:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6193703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairietailed/pseuds/fairietailed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It makes you feel fearless; you can take on the world on this bike, just you and him, wind biting at your face and your arms around his waist. Sometimes it takes all you have not to raise your arms over your head in cliche triumph, head thrown back and staring at the stars above you. You settle instead for resting your cheek on the worn leather of his jacket, and sometimes you can almost hear him laughing with you over the wind in your ears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	High Dive

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea in my head for weeks, of Soul and Maka just going out and doing nothing and everything all at the same time. So this is short and sweet and entirely based off of the song High Dive by Andrew Mcmahon. I would suggest listening to it either before/after/while reading this. Link is below.
> 
> (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VyxvYwCH524)

You watch from the window as his bike pulls into the driveway, headlights causing the shadows of the bushes to grow and stretch toward where you stand.

 

A grin breaks out before you can stop it as you sprint to the front door, calling out for Papa not to wait up, grabbing your jacket from the hook on the wall. You’re out the door in half a minute and jogging to where he sits, waiting for you to meet him. His grin is dangerous and beautiful and - no matter how often you see it - catches you off guard every time. A helmet is tossed in your direction and you catch it without a problem, slipping it on and clipping it beneath your chin with a practiced ease. You slide onto the seat behind him and he sets off, pushing 80 in the middle of the suburbs. You can’t help yourself as you laugh.

 

It makes you feel fearless; you can take on the world on this bike, just you and him, wind biting at your face and your arms around his waist. Sometimes it takes all you have not to raise your arms over your head in cliche triumph, head thrown back and staring at the stars above you. You settle instead for resting your cheek on the worn leather of his jacket, and sometimes you can almost hear him laughing with you over the wind in your ears.

 

You hold onto him tighter as he speeds up, the suburbs shrinking behind you.

 

He drives for what seems like hours, finally stopping at the diner you visit (almost) too frequently and he helps pull you off the bike, snaking an arm around your shoulder and leading you inside. His arm is heavy over your jean jacket, but not unwanted. Your pulse races in your ears dramatically and you wonder if he can hear it.

 

The smirk on his face makes you think that he can.

 

You watch him like he’s the most interesting person you’ve ever met. He’s all mock insults, terrible jokes and attempts at making (outdated) moves on you mixed with half asleep phone calls and lazy kisses and a warmth in your chest that feels so much like home it  _ hurts _ and-

 

“Maka”

 

A hum.

 

“Let’s go to that place tonight”

 

A beat. “the one from last week”

 

Another. “you have strawberry milkshake on your nose you know”

 

Another hum. A napkin. A shared laugh and “you’re such a dork” and just like that your check is paid and you’re on the road again, buildings and lights flying past you like train cars. You laugh at the fact that you’re the ones moving.

 

This ride is much shorter, and soon you’re turning down a nearly empty street and parking in a dark corner of a cul de sac, whispering too loudly and attempting to stifle each other’s laughter at trying to help one another over the half broken wooden fence. You make it over after nearly five minutes of struggling, crumpling onto the ground next to each other, holding your stomachs in laughter.

 

He stands first, hand extended. You reach without hesitation, trust absolute.

 

You’re pulled up from the floor and straight to his chest, nose brushing against his collarbone, a sound escaping you that sounds like a mix between a sigh and a strangled cry for help. He only laughs and places his palm on the top of your head, taking a step back and walking toward the backyard of the abandoned house you’re currently at. You’re trailing behind him almost immediately, and he leads you into the open.

 

He makes his way across the yard and to the small shed that stands there, pulling out two (albeit half-broken) chaise lounges and dragging them to the patio, facing the pool across from you. He laughs at the face you make, attempting to use your momentary disgust as an opportunity to grab the less broken of the two chairs. You push him off and claim it for yourself, unphased. He makes no attempt to move you.

 

The chairs click back until you can stare at the stars without having to even try. You take in the shape of the sky, the curve of the universe, and reach for his hand to keep you from floating away. His fingers lace into yours, slender and professional and seeming to be  _ made _ for the ivory of a piano to be beneath them. 

 

Your fingers being surrounded by his seems wrong, as they’re clumsy and useless and nowhere near the ivory you wish that they were. So you pull them away from his and stand instead, making your way to the deep end of the pool and walking the diving board like a tightrope. Arms extended out, one foot in front of the other. You think about how you could have been in the circus, in another universe. Or maybe if this Earth had spun in a slightly different direction.

 

Your voice seems to fall into the emptied pool in front of you.

 

“Soul”

 

“Hm”

 

“Play that song” and “the one I like” and “please?”

 

And then he’s sighing, reaching into his inner jacket pocket to pull out his phone as he smiles more to himself than you, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter along with it.

 

He places a stick in between his lips as he thumbs through his playlists for you. And you  _ know  _ it’s for you, because there’s no way that he would ever play your favorite song for himself, because it’s nothing but synths and pulsing bass and lyrics that you can never remember. But you love the pure mindlessness and the unpredictability and the feeling you get when you listen to it, and he loves you, so he plays it anyway and attempts to hide his unhappy expression as you begin humming to the beat. 

 

He lights his cigarette instead, watching you stand on your tightrope above the crowd.

 

And then you begin to dance, eyes closed and arms floating around you as if you’re beneath an ocean current that you have no interest in coming out from. Soon you’ve swished and twirled and hummed your way off of the springboard and across the yard - stargazing forgotten - and you’re pulling him up to dance along with you and he’s protesting but not pulling away. You dance around him, hips swaying and pigtails whipping your face as you bounce to the beat from the speakers of his phone and he watches you as if you’re the stars incarnate.

 

You look at him as if he’s the sun that they orbit unconditionally.

 

Soon the song ends, and you’re breathless and laughing and holding his hand above your head so you can twirl beneath it. He only smiles, much softer than the one you’re used to, seeming to spin you with extra care as he pulls you close. And now you can’t hear the music, and you can’t feel the wind, and you’re suddenly very warm in your small denim jacket and your skinny jeans and everything is more perfect now than it has ever been.

 

You kiss him, arm around his neck as you pull him down to meet you, legs shaking and breathing short, and you can feel him smile into you as his hands move to your waist, bringing you closer and losing any space left between you.

 

And your head is spinning in the best possible way, and your heart feels like it may burst at any second, but you know that if you were to die right now you would be okay with that, as long as it didn’t stop him from kissing you stupid.

 

You spend the rest of the night together in the deep end of the pool, drowning in each other and the blankets that you share before the sun rises behind you and you make your way home, falling asleep with your face pressed against the leather jacket on his back and a rumbling in your chest, warmer than it’s ever been, and you think that maybe this is the place that you are happiest.

 

The place where you belong.

**Author's Note:**

> So the song I had in mind while Maka was dancing was All Our Lives, also by Andrew McMahon. Thank you for reading, reviews are very greatly appreciated!!


End file.
